


This Weight to Bear

by ElenoftheWays



Series: Nocturne for Violin and Mind in B Flat [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, How to unfriend John Watson when John Watson won't give up on you, John and Mary's Wedding, M/M, Male Friendship, POV Sherlock Holmes, Past Drug Use, Post-Episode: s03e02 The Sign of Three, Sherlock Thinking, Sherlock is a fragile baby giraffe when you're not looking, Sherlock's relationship with himself, Stream of Consciousness, Swearing, self exploration, team sherlock is a cat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-10
Updated: 2017-05-10
Packaged: 2018-10-29 21:36:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10862571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElenoftheWays/pseuds/ElenoftheWays
Summary: "After spending all of that time running around the globe, there was nothing he wanted more for John than to never experience that level of terrifying danger, but now that happiness was at last attainable with a wife and growing child, it just felt so odd. Odd and yet accepting all at once. Wanting just a little more time before John would commit himself to a woman was rather selfish, but at the same time this was the nervous system’s acute stress response of being abandoned on a more tangible level."





	This Weight to Bear

**Author's Note:**

> May it be warned, I probably don't have the most politically correct observations on Sherlock's drug use and am more interested in how a person identifies or is not personally identified with a label than the actuality of realized destructive choices. If this triggers you, I apologize for the inconvenience.

“Mary and John: whatever it takes, whatever happens, from now on I swear I will always be there, always, for all three of you” and lips immediately snapped shut. Well, that happened. It was bound to slip out considering emotions and especially now with the Mayfly Man off of his mind. Endorphins calmly flew within their respective nerves and this lightness never felt more addicting, more grounding, more present than within this exact second even if at this exact second involved seeing John off into this new life. It was one thing for a minister to consecrate “Doctor and Mrs. Watson” earlier, but it was another to accidentally usher the two of them into this new phase of their lives which would involve a child. Eyelids slightly widened, hoping the streaks of heat across his face was not apparent to the wedding guests around the dance floor.

  
Something had to have been cooking inside of John at those very words and in administering caution, the social activities of dancing had to be initiated as quickly as possible. Those eyes looked up to his more amazed than those ticking seconds towards that natural anger time bomb inside of him. Shock. Thank God. It was more preferable than anger, at least in a social setting. A head gently shook, air breathing against the back of the neck and rising goosebumps in its swiftness, promptly administering that caution. “Er, I’m sorry, I mean the two of you. All two of you. Both of you, in fact, I’ve just miscounted. Anyway, it’s time for dancing.” Did his voice pitch somewhere in that caution mode? Hope was not too far away at the quickest gesture towards the DJ as eardrums promptly trembled at the beginning beats of some inconsequential pop song from the speakers on either side of him, the brown and white accented room submerging into a sea of multicolored lights.

  
If he were in any other situation John, more socially gifted John, the quick to correct John, would have been there to counter the bluntly and painfully obvious, but without that kind buffer in recent years, that usual confidence easily faltered and breath could only be held. Would he get punched in the face or would all result in a simple and easily brushed off insult? But how, exactly, could a doctor and nurse not notice this? His words, however, were an easy mistake, completely lost within that mindful Buddhist _sati_ all over again, high off of the slowly waltzing post-case chemicals. The weight of the violin still echoed off the shoulder and chin as did the dancing with Janine in the other room. But now, right now, a sharp inhale slowly staggered although peacefulness still existed even within that embarrassment. This was different. But John Watson… John _Hamish_ Watson was married. His John, well, no longer his John was married and was to be a father. Something hot and surging inched up the nerves in an already pin straight posture although barely quaking hands quickly gestured to the dance floor barely littered by the wedding guests, “OK, everybody, just dance. Don’t be shy.” This had to be fixed and quickly.

Although this did need to be amended, walking off that stage and merging in with the loud bass and bright lights felt as if walking into some kind of fate in admitting the pregnancy and by extension, the knowledge John really had no need for him now. That dread tingled over shoulders, having to take these steps. Once more arms gestured for the room to undergo the power of some ridiculous pop song, walking closer and closer to the Doctor and Mrs. Watson, the phrase tempting hands to tremble even harder than they truly were. They promptly went behind his back. Zajonc[[1](%E2%80%9C#note1%E2%80%9D)] was not wrong that over time couples look like one another, although for John and Mary their faces were both equally stunned and yet their features looked faintly alike. He could only imagine after the 25 year mark, a palm gripping the knuckles lying on top of it. If that strange low boiling in the nerves of his lower back were not bubbling, both under the slip of the tongue and the thick feeling tickling the back of a neck, teeth would have grabbed the inside of a humored cheek at the mere likeness.

“Sorry, that was one more deduction than I was really expecting,” the lights were flashing off and on the couple’s wedding attire and their confused faces at last standing in front of the Watsons. Here was where that dreaded fate laid before him. It was still bewildering, the quick nanosecond of being, that Mary, as a nurse, would not have noticed the changes within herself. After all, she was different in her astuteness and yet never recognizing the increased appetite, the change of taste perception, even the very distinct morning sickness being misconstrued as “wedding nerves.” Billy the skull had a long rant coming later when it came to this showy wedding culture. They still looked dumbstruck and a different kind of composure cooled every moderately warm nerve. Perhaps the freshly sanctioned Watsons didn’t want to see it just yet, looking down to the growth barely against Mary’s abdomen baptizing it as “the sign of three” and that a pregnancy test would be the most advisable thing. They were silent still within their bewilderment, colors continuing their flashing against that shared look on their faces.

“W…th… the statistics for the first trimester are…”

Mary’s wide smile was practically glowing. Of course she would, but John was his main worry. The father-to-be at last straightened upwards after practically doubling over and a “shut up” naturally was the only thing that could be said. So much for trying to be helpful towards the clueless parents, the mind affectionately mocked. “Just… shut up,” a hand quickly gestured. A sorry came out just as wittily watching John look over to his wife. His wife… “How did __he__ notice before me? I’m a bloody doctor.” John wasn’t wrong and a tongue was promptly bitten into to quiet his own 50 cents on the matter.

“It’s your day off” the voice couldn’t help but tease.

“It’s __your__ day off!”

“Stop, stop panicking.”

“I’m not panicking.”

“I’m pregnant - __I’m__ panicking,” at that, it was very difficult to not burst out laughing, not so much at their shock and angst, but the swift pacing of the more physical party of three at this moment, on this dance floor, the ridiculous colors and music too elaborate against his senses.

“Don’t panic. None of you panic. Absolutely no reason to panic,” of course except for him, feeling that grip clutching at John Watson’s tie lessening the more resolute he looked even under his confusion. John Hamish Watson is married. A breath quickly inhaled. Of course Sherlock would know, John continued in his biting sarcasm. There was only one answer to this, gently exhaling, readying to lay himself against a humorous self deprecation all over again. “Yes I would,” a nod proved confident despite the sickness rising in the back of his stomach, conjuring an even more eager look against eye nerves, “You’re already the best parents in the world. Look at all the practice you had.”

Mocking deprecation could be the only outlet for this moment as every single pecked over aspect of his acute humanity always did call for being diluted towards accessibility especially in times of stress. This was a time to use it for its good although it was still barely obvious for John whose heart rate must have been going a million miles a minute by now. Breath almost hitched in its sorrow watching his intricate heterochromia tinted irises.[[1](%E2%80%9C#note1%E2%80%9D)] The outer blue ring was hazed over with its natural gray although the usual gold freckles disappeared within the surprise. Must he spell it out? “Well, you’re hardly going to need __me__ around now that you’ve got a real baby on the way” was almost painful to get out of his throat and even more so in that humorously accessible tone. That hypothetical hand gripped John’s white tie a little tighter this time around. But the deprecation worked as those gold freckles returned to that sea of brown, a glowing smile of his own which could rival his wife’s spreading across that face. A laugh was shared, but the vigor on his end proved almost painful vibrating out of a throat as eardrums momentarily rattled at the obscenely loud music. When did the music become so loud?

“Hey, my/As I recall it ended much too soon…” Everything was too loud, the sensations of human bodies dancing, creating an air of its own against his already extremely taut back. Soon the room would be sweltering by a horde of sweat glands of various temperaments and an assisting collective of body odor caused by this vivacity. A less clammier hand clapped against the back of his neck, the very impact causing eyes to glow a little brighter than necessary, almost as if he had to sell his enthusiasm to the doctor as he grinned just as widely then to Mary. The sobriety of the moment began to lift in his throat, seeing how happy John was. People like the Watsons naturally wanted children, who was he to present anything else outwards and especially at his wedding? This was what tact felt like. True friendship. He finally got there. This was a joy for them, him by extension for their happiness, but the inner body was currently and shamelessly in mourning. That “great Sherlock Holmes” as a Godfather could not be a greater disaster, but it was going to happen anyway.

That ecstatic hand reached for his shoulder this time around, a new vibration taking over than the psychic weight of that lower bout[[2](%E2%80%9C#note2%E2%80%9D)] still trembling against him. This was what tact felt like. Lips couldn’t help but fold in against one another, John’s more elated smile scanning his overall perimeter of the transport. Don’t worry John, I’m very much happy for your happiness. Panic almost settled in wondering what his own eyes were doing against his will. John Watson was married and was to be a father. He had to believe John must have always wanted that and this, although with new technological feats, was impossible in wanting to offer that level of intimacy. That smile remained against his lips, mustering all the cheeriness he could when a part of him just wanted to curl up in the safety of his bedroom. At that quick observation, folded lips almost diminished in their cheeriness completely.

He had to believe that this was what John needed, the Sherlock from two years ago inside of him barely frightened this time around of John escaping into the mundane everyday. Either way, it did involve jumping off of St. Bart’s. Despite grief, John did rather well within a slow progression in managing to find a fascinating woman like Mary Morstan. But that tie was still being clutched, the voice of his ten year old self which he was hearing more and more these days practically calling out “please don’t go, John, you’re all I have.” Irises almost shook but buckling down was not even an option, seeing that certain awkward alpha male look readying itself all over John’s complexly colored eyes.

After some convincing, the Doctor and Mrs. Watson were at last dancing, looking quite possibly the happiest they had been all day but then there might have been that case that got in the way of more jubilant celebration. “Thank you” Mrs. Watson mouthed in his direction and a nod accepted this along with conjuring the widest smile he could muster, wondering if they were both thinking the same thing. At last John was let go with or without The Game. The mature thing was to let John disappear into the everyday of his own making whether he believed it mundane or not. That was the weight to bear. Irises almost shook again. His John was officially lost to him and yet he could not be too upset. If he were to be upset, it would be petulant and childlike, but acceptance would lay a martyr-like weight on himself, something just as egotistical as he was when John came into his life. Having been dead also included far too much time to think, realizing his head was bowed in shock.

Perspiration began to slowly take over, and it being May offered some favors in the possibility of opening the windows. If the hotel staff were to offer just a little more air, maybe leaving wouldn’t be the only option. Perhaps even dancing with Janine would be the next order of the evening after sealing the the sheet music within its envelope. With the bridesmaid officially on his mind, not yet to the stage, it was easy to find her as she was still wearing his buttonhole flower. Even from across the room, his gaze was reciprocated with a smile as she continued dancing with the “comics and sci fi geek.” The review was better than expected with a thumb opposing its gravity. She did look familiar though, even outside of this one event on this exact day, but fantastic days often descend into the worst lows, fingers sliding off the silk of John’s tie, the weight of a beginning fetus inside of Mary.

If tonight was not a post-case kind of night, Janine Hawkins would be investigated thoroughly by the mastery of google. She was not entirely a person made of intellectual attraction stock, but she was indeed sharp, nodes down the scale from “The Woman.” He liked her. It was even commendable she listened to his recommendation, very few people really did. But Janine Hawkins could take care of herself and would be entertained at presuming how she was going to let “comics and sci fi geek” down easy, if easy at all. Amused lips pursed. The bass line of this pop song shivered down his back more violently this time. This was the perfect answer to Mrs. Hudson as to how her own bridesmaid left her wedding. Sensory overload? Sentiment? “The end of an era” indeed! No, it was the end of a _certain_ era.

Even with all of the nerves orchestrating their own composition within his body, somehow it moved gracefully back to the stage. The sheet music was tucked into its envelope and left on the musical stand as the paper texture was the last sensation to run through hypersensitive nerves. This was indeed “the end of a certain era,” finger tips and pads decided, leaving the sheet music to its own devices. This was also a post-case evening and sleep did not sound like a bad idea although the sensation of waking up with that moderate knowledge that John Watson was married struck at nerves even hotter. It was the heat of his own bed that lulled legs to walk through the crowd, more resolute in this decision somewhere between sentiment or sensory overload or post-case exhaustion.

“May get stuffy in a few minutes,” his voice quietly grumbled to the server coming in with a platter of drinks and a few pounds slid into the chest pocket of his uniform, “If convenient, just open the windows.”

It was his final good deed for this heartbreaking day striding out into the early summer evening, the warmth of the Belstaff compensating for the heat of his bed sweeping it behind him and upwards, the comfort and stiff material grazing his cheekbones. This was what that “great Sherlock Holmes” was made of and this was that weight he alone, without his John, must bear.

 

*

 

221B always did look more desolate in the evenings. There was the first glance of the fireplace, painted of bright and various colors of street and head lights, a flicker of red from a squad car skittering directly in from the dark and unclothed windows. A wide vertical strip of yellow even passed halfway across the mantle. But even in the desolation, this textured trellis of light and dark, this was indeed home. This place would always be an extension of himself and on the night of John and Mary’s wedding it never felt more poetic being just as equally fragmented in light. But it wasn’t worth as much thought within his comfort, that perfect flat, as that embryonic Belstaff fell from his arms. A sigh of relief began to exhale, but at the sight of John’s chair it gently shook.

It would be the easier thing to sit in his chair and stare into the intricacies of the multicolored plaid blanket hanging off of the back of it, but what did anymore sentiment solve? It was important to have had the emotions in the exact moment and that he did although painful. A hand released the thick fabric to the couch sighing all over again, some simple exhale just to relieve the body of all that passed at the reception hall as legs walked to his window.

But arms took their usual pose, crossing behind a back, knuckles to palm like before. The last time he stood in that pose “sorry, that was one more deduction than I was really expecting” came flooding out of a surprisingly literate throat even within that dreading fate looming over shoulders. Another wide yellow light passed over his face, eyes slightly wincing in the intensity. Acute eardrums still gently thudded in the memory of that pop song pounding through the speakers behind him. Oh what a night, indeed.

Eyes finally closed almost as relieved as those exhales, the transport happily satisfied to at last act on instinctive reactions. Being polite was one thing but withholding more purposeful emotions for a certain stretch of time had now at last relished within these breaths. It was all this transport wanted, now far more accepting of this weight, no longer an emotion but a thickness. But what use was raging sentiment? Breath hollowed sharply through the nasal passages, down the windpipes, into the lungs. An entering coolness seemed to be calming in the simplicity of that Buddhist principle. Mindfulness of the body bleeding into the vedana _ _[[3](%E2%80%9C#note3%E2%80%9D)]__ of sensations.  

Behind closed lids, therein laid no more anxiety in coming back to his own beloved 221B although it still wafted a certain breath that was so eloquently John’s. The damned Doctor was still hard to get rid of, the side of the mouth quirked. However, as long as Mrs. Hudson stayed at the reception hall full of celebration and questionable musical taste, John would still be around popping in and out of Baker Street often. Mrs. Hudson would even want to be in the child’s life once born and he would be granted a Godfather title, so John would even be back through some kind of sentimental osmosis.

A traitorous breath shook inwardly this time around and exhaling, eyes flickered open at the impact. Fingers immediately began to liberate the tie from around his neck then button from loop, slowly turning from the window, popping one after another remembering each thought that came to mind when attaching them that morning. One clasp breathed that hovering dread, the other anxiety over the best man’s speech, the next the dance he had to have with the head bridesmaid, many offering a sick feeling in his stomach that this was the day he had to officially let John go. Thank God for solving the case which alleviated, or perhaps heightened, emotions. But just because he would practically shove the doctor out of that door, doesn’t mean he wouldn’t be back. If reincarnation was truly a thing, Doctor John Watson had to have been Border Collie in a prior life.

The smooth sensation of releasing the shirt down his arms left goosebumps, crossing into the kitchen then to his bedroom. The shirt and tie promptly slid back onto the hanger it came to 221B on, removing every single reminder of the day. But that was the problem wasn’t it? The scent of The Game pervading 221B provided a source of addiction towards the good doctor entering a new and healthier phase of his post-battle fatigue. It was indeed the healthiest thing for him to have found a woman like Mary Morstan even if those growing deductive skills would shrink back down to the simplest observation, pocketing him back into that repression without the Game in his life. It wasn’t a happy thought to have John back in this way whether from sentimental osmosis or a fixation to danger, but this was a worry to have forever attached to him no matter the escaping sentiment or sensory overload! As long as John Watson existed, it was his personal worry.

However, there was no doubt that John believed the same about him. Except in this case, a healthy dose of The Game and narcotics had helped liberate more stubborn chemicals that needed shaking from his mind. But addictive behavior often escalates, diluting into what the world around him believed as drug abuse. He had to believe for himself that every unhealthy conscious decision was done in the name of heightening the awareness towards some good although once selfishness kicked in, it was purely an indulgence. There had to have been a day where heightening his awareness into some Shamanic state would surely offer some clarity about a case! But justification was often fruitless, knowing he indeed exhibited addictive behavior but never fully, completely, within identity to himself than others. But John would also defend his end just as ardently. Once more it all boiled down to those two different worlds the once roommates resided in.

So two addictive personalities, as naked feet plodded into the bathroom, would not the most stable of friendships make and he was indeed aware of this. But somehow they complimented one another despite those two different worlds. It was rather advantageous of his own social awareness but probably rather dangerous for John, forever teetering on the perimeters of each of them. “Death” naturally left him in the more ruthless extroverted world. It was no wonder why the “great Sherlock Holmes” was painted in such an elaborate picture on that blog. An addictive personality looking for another vice, something to believe in. By this, peace was made within the mind, sentiment barely getting the better of him and a hand reached out for the shower dial, the dead sound humming through every last whirling thought.

Moderately heated water rained down on him, soothing taut shoulder muscles. Escaping his thoughts, running slower under the natural post-case rewards system, here he was standing directly under the water, curls promptly being flattened under the weight. Sometimes he wished John’s passionate assertion on using the blog induced a different reaction from him. Rejection was on the tip of the tongue, readying to chant “no” in multiple different languages. But if that was to have happened, “Baskerville” would have never came to him and that was a solid case! Was it truly the price to pay to have made a good friend and roommate who just had to attempt in picking apart his mystery than focusing on the case at hand? One of the most recent posts apologized for its absence as the “great Sherlock Holmes” was “hiding” to save his friends before resurrecting.

Water rippled down the reminders of that “hiding” period, now completely under its mercy as a hand wiped down his face, each respective nerve tingling under the smooth palm. Another breath practically heaved off of now more contented ribs. What did it matter this constant insistence in pitting his roommate’s world against his or was this just a layer simply created against this strange mourning? Even still there was no point in “mourning,” but simply wishing John to see the more quieter moments which indeed existed but never at the appropriate times. It was impossible to get into another person’s mind, save hypnosis, but all behavior of thought mostly corresponds into the body, heightened awareness and deductive abilities being an advantage to see what people were really saying. John did try as those skills grew stronger, now being able to communicate with simple looks, but it didn’t stop a blind hope that through education, John’s more verbal nature would embellish on that introverted world that the throat wouldn’t or couldn’t exploit.

It wasn’t as if he himself was a great mystery, but that William Sherlock Scott Holmes  certainly was. As the friendship grew, the more there was a sensation to confide the tinier aspects of his being before his rebirth. What of his enjoyment for dancing or that he read Goethe’s Faust at least three times? Would it have been very surprising if John saw that pirouette that Janine experienced earlier? John had two years to learn whatever he wanted and this is what he got. Outside of cases, there was always his tea and food orders, knowing what warranted his alone time or the pre or post rewards system. Unfortunately this argument could not leave his mind, not even after spending two years dismantling Moriarty’s web with the thought of John’s friendship practically keeping him alive. But once back within that orbit of London, old habits and arguments came back biting just as hard as the inception of a cigarette to skin.

Fingertips gently undulated circles against his scalp, soothing all emotion out of this moment. Did any of this really solve anything? It did not and yet at the same time, it was palpable and blameless. That warm sensation washed away all that was in his curls, beads quite acutely running down a scarred back and what nerves were still there tingled. Perhaps in the middle of John’s shouting orders at him in front of Major Sholto’s door earlier, it was the truth that he was indeed a “drama queen,” leftover sentiment from those days as William in the purest indulgence in cocaine and random bursts of hypersensitivity. Not all of it could be repressed or restrained and once more, it was blameless to have such a reaction towards a friend whose layered, textured, disorderly friendship he took sore advantage of for those two years.

There was hope after those years abroad to have had some time with John before a decision of marriage ever became a question in his life. It wasn’t selfish to have presumed to his brother that John would be ready for his resurrection, whether believing it delusion or simply faith in the only person he didn’t want to thrash, that is, on a good day. But he did “get on” and at the immediate impact of a fist and the loud screams of back nerves hitting the floor, the darker days in Serbia full of a color of wondering what John was doing at this very moment officially evaporated into the cold reality surrounding him. What else was there to feel but abandoned and coming back into that orbit, that old life and remembering all past grievances now vivid while watching John happily getting on with his life?

That certain weight began on the russet carpet of the Landmark Hotel and since then became a hefty dumbbell against the sternum. He was never much of a friend to John, was he? But then he never promised anything except the excitement and danger of The Game, being no more than an enabler when John did nothing but embellish on his humanity and took on prior addictions as his own doctorly duty. This was their friendship. Although the ex-soldier became easier to read over these years, through both behavioral impressions and his extroverted nature, the vicinity of this messed up friendship began to feel familiar and rather touching. Why else would he have broken down during the first night’s sleep post- “A Study in Pink?”

It was a service to John in leaving the wedding, always knowing where this friendship began and ended without arrogance. Perhaps that was the thing about sharp hypersensitivity, the lightning speed of the unconscious mind’s perception usually being relatively correct ... without arrogance. A breath inhaled the scents of body wash and hair products wafting off of the transport and it practically echoed within the tight acoustics. Showing him out the door was the appropriate thing since John deserved all the happiness within what he perceived as normalcy in that world he lived in. Despite Mrs. Hudson’s words that “marriage changes you as a person” and with that addictive personality, it would merely domesticate him, it wouldn’t entirely change him. So much for hoping for as clean of a break imaginable.

After spending all of that time running around the globe, there was nothing he wanted more for John than to never experience that level of terrifying danger, but now that happiness was at last attainable with a wife and growing child, it just felt so odd. Odd and yet accepting all at once. Wanting just a little more time before John would commit himself to a woman was rather selfish, but at the same time this was the nervous system’s acute stress response[[5](%E2%80%9C#note5%E2%80%9D)] of being abandoned on a more tangible level. But yes, this was the best for John as he helped the relatively hopeless bride with the wedding planning, practically offering physical evidence that he could not have been more pleased and would bloody commission the experience no matter how ridiculous the pageantry!

Lips lifted remembering there was a good rant to ramble off to Billy once dried off and in lounge clothes. But now, within this moment of vedana __of rotating bath sponges and body wash cleansing him of the evening, only proved that this whole experience was a poor one to be lost within. The back of the throat assisted in the exhale, washing down a leg and echoing through the bath. Even John once used this shower! John brushed his teeth at that sink, banged on the door when he found himself lost within thought through the dead sound of water, so like this moment. He would never have that again no matter the hilarity or agitation. Standing up fully with soap like a second skin, tears at last came flooding to his eyes with barely a struggle.

Of course biology would win over the mind, the transport always far more susceptible to emotions. But within the mind, all of it was martyrdom, attempting practicality over a rather emotional codependent relationship between “drama queen[s].” He was not the only one! Although post-case _and_ post-wedding, it was bound to happen with sentiment hitting the body with a natural blunt force, but the tears were rather unexpected.

It was strange how both times in crying in the name of John, there was never a distortion of facial muscles. This time, brow bones helplessly winced and lips lightly pinched outwards, but rationally, there was no point in crying. Apparently, that was the thing about weddings. After all, how many times that day did he receive the temptation between the ecstatic look on John’s face or almost breaking down before the husband and wife danced? The moment the “great Sherlock Holmes” accidentally turned the waterworks on in public, it would surely be a sideshow experience. It was something an 18 year old William would do years before his rebirth into Sherlock, being cleansed of everything of that prior life of boredom and more regular addictive behavior.

Fingers pinched the bridge of the nose, feeling tear ducts shamelessly watering forth more of their biological production. To know everything and feel it all all at once was just one more curse, another weight, he had to bear in being himself. Perhaps this was the real weight merely being reset against his person all over again. The mind would not cripple under this submission as the warm watery thudding landed on the back of a neck as the chin dropped.

But within this strange friendship, John took with him all the pieces of himself capable of caring for another person and all of the scraps he attained in presuming his humanity in creating the “great Sherlock Holmes.” It was far more immense compared to the chipped fragments of his adolescence, having at least tried. But the human race, in his ever growing distaste for them as a whole, always did have a belief to that of a food chain, the powerful capable of marginalizing what they find disagreeable or amusing. Extreme emotions in an adolescent male specimen often led to too much scrutiny and most often tossed into a trash bin. At least his parents always called him an adult, his grandmother believing him an “old soul,” whatever that meant.

“Kindly put yourself together” somehow managed to growl outwards, but tears proved unrelenting as those words shook and echoed in ears. It was all out of comprehension, but what more was there to be thought of? What did any of this, the rather verbose inner speech tickling the left inferior frontal gyrus[[6](%E2%80%9C#note6%E2%80%9D)], really solve? An enduring “drama queen” status? If anything proved what little he knew what it meant to be a friend indeed showed in his parting with one! The smooth sensation of palms discovered the face to be warm and wet as nerves gently responded to the cascading movement. “No, no, no.”

What use was it to think about any of this as hands dropped to their sides with a deep sigh, one reaching out and punching the tile in front of him harder than expected. “Fuck” fell right out of the acute stress response all over again, the diffusion lessening the knuckle pain. Of course this was the only proper emotion as expletives do come from a deeper place within the brain’s right hemisphere, that damned amygdala triggering a heart rate not exactly coming from the pain but disappointment. That was biology 101, attempting the safe return within the mind where the transport had little power, yet even this was fruitless. Body wash slid off of skin, the slow and smooth trailing almost arousing the nerves in a different tactility. Hands slid down his face all over again, gently sniffing.

Knuckles echoed their previous impact, looking to the slight reverberating pain. Large hands tinted pinker than usual under the perfection of a good warm shower, the proximal area above the MCP joint[[7](%E2%80%9C#note7%E2%80%9D)] a bright red. No real damage, as fingers rubbed against the area, although John, in his diligence, would come swooping in with an ice pack and yelling at him that there was “no use in damaging your transport when you have to use it to use that brick of a brain you have carrying around in there!” A lip couldn’t quirk. It slightly trembled under the knowledge that the more tangible John would never exist in that flat within that certain capacity ever again. The image of the drain underneath him began to look foggy as tears came back far more assertive.

They were even hotter than before, pooling at a jawline and mingling with the rest of his shower. What was Boris Yelstin’s famous quote again? “We don’t appreciate what we have until it’s gone. […] When you have it, you don’t notice it.” Yet the grip on John was always tight, consciously stunned at every selfless super power instilled within the ex-military doctor. That was his right within his profession and John chose to illuminate it in the direction of someone who sorely needed it. Of course it would result in a downfall for the both of them, this being a much better reason to depart the reception early than Mrs. Hudson’s bridesmaid. His was simply a ripping of the bandage, no matter how awful it looked, if appearances of such things really mattered. But they mattered to the world he did not completely inhabit and for almost a whole day, save most of the afternoon where the case existed, he did better than the average INTJ would. Or was it INTP? It didn’t matter, but Jung was fascinating.[[8](%E2%80%9C#note8%E2%80%9D)] 

But between the addictive quality of The Game and being John’s best friend, the admittance out in the open in spite of the wedding, he would be back at 221B. He would be back with an armful of a child looking for some sort of fix from that world he lived in for those two years. He did him a favor although a passive one! It would be no easier on his wedding day of all days to disclose that “you are inclined towards danger, John. It’s just as equally an addiction as mine and in accidentally disclosing Mary’s pregnant state, it is just as vital for you to kick this habit to be a father. I will be walking out of this door and I am taking The Game with me. To put it precariously, you’re going cold turkey.”

Even if lips damned himself without the usual self preservation in likening towards a child, John would be a fantastic parent in how he was taken cared of as a friend and patient. He really did take advantage of it all, didn’t he? A stronger and more violent current of tears rolled down cheeks hotter than before as blood vessels began to constrict underneath gently pruning finger pads. A hand reached out to the shower dial. How was it that the small phrase managed to conjure the deepest sentiment?

Hands reached for a towel, relieving both water and tears. A face momentarily buried itself into the cotton, sighing deeply. This was what happened when he allowed people to become too close. This was the cost of enabling another person’s addiction towards danger and in turn losing fragments of himself all over again. This was why he initially gave up on people although wishing to untangle the mysteries and messes they tend to create. But was this entirely deprecation or simply a positive assertion of the bad bits? It couldn’t be as easy as renaming himself all over again, mussing up those curls and looking into the mirror confidently baptizing himself as “Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective.” This was his weight, that curse, all over again never quite being able to keep up with a frantic world with all of its lower functioning perception and simplicity. John should have never confided that true friendship outwards.

Wrists wiped eyelids of what was hopefully the last of his tears. Even this pathetically simple act was exhausting, believing this night’s sleep would reach into the afternoon hours of the next day. He deserved it, wrapping himself in that tattered blue robe, escaping into the bedroom for pajama pants. The textures were cool against that hotly emotional transport inhaling assertion then exhaling the reality, hearing a rhythmic vibration coming from the main room. Following the noise, his phone was almost toppling his entire Belstaff off the couch in its intensity.

Molly (9:15 pm):

Hey, are you alright? I saw you leave.

 

Molly (9:20 pm):

Are you sure you don’t want to talk about it?

 

Molly (9:30 pm):

I don’t blame you. I wouldn’t want to talk either. I’m sorry for what you’re going through.

 

Molly (9:32 pm):

OMG, I’m so sorry. My texting has to be annoying you!

 

Molly (9:35 pm):

[Attachment]

Not trying to annoy you, but, even if leaving is worth it right now, you’re missing out on Martha doing some shots with the younger crowd. I’ll send you more visual evidence tomorrow, but you did not get this from me.

 

Whether it was the rampant time stamp progression or the attachment on the last text being an image of Mrs. Hudson mid-sip of a shot of some kind, a chuckle proved inescapable. The Belstaff was placed on its usual peg and the phone sat on the desk, believing tears officially absolved for the evening. He leaned against its edge. This was the perfect way to end an exhausting day.

“What’s the point in writing up a case if it was always meant to be confidential?”

“So people would at least know there are some cases that we can’t completely talk about. It shows prestige.”

“Hm, at least it’s titled respectfully. “The Woman.””

“Oh fuck off, Sherlock.” The voices were so loud from simply staring into that chair, he remembered a lip quirking in approval, but a siren blew through the mind that John could perceive the slight movement differently if he looked up from his newspaper. If the gesture was seen, the topic of Irene Adler would come up all over again. The world outside of this friendship meant nothing, but when did John’s opinion become something so important? He never expected this cohabitation to become anything more than a forensic second opinion on cases! What would have happened if he didn’t come charging back up those steps, almost forgetting his new roommate was a doctor with some expertise and familiar with violence, and hearing that rather assertively crooning “oh God, yes.” Those three words together became forever annoying from that point on.  

At least it wasn’t as emotional of a response than when he came back to an empty 221B on that dismal October evening. Eardrums were still thudding and reverberating from a certain not-housekeeper’s scream. A hand may have held the doorknob for perhaps a little too long, believing If he had less things in 221B, every object and surface would have been touched and mentally compartmentalized all over again. But in sitting down in his chair, still with every reliable lump and curve complimenting the back and legs, and looking ahead at John’s own, emotions were not so easily distinguished. Eventually, they fell into the slightest tears, the nerves of the transport feeling far more a reaction than the biological production of basal tear fluid. The whole body leaned forward, elbows on knees, although a ringing sensation went up his left arm from the previous impact of a frying pan, and covered his face. Now it was easier to look at the chair, but this time that damned basal tear fluid proved unrelenting, clouding the condemned piece of furniture from his vision.

This was an impossible place to be in, passively walking away from a friendship. John’s Border Collie-like loyalty would be his downfall as long as the mind continued to recount itself of that previous capacity. A distraction was very much needed even if it meant leaving his beloved London only for a little while! Sighing, he settled into that reliable chair and fingers shaped into a steeple against lips but only in thought. What other reaction could there be after spending two years in that field work, presuming John’s everyday activities? The thoughts kept him alive, hiding and sleeping under bridges and dusty basements, with the deepest craving of that first jaunt from Angelo’s back to 221B with a slight childishness surging through his veins. He craved the Indian food, the well made tea, and John more often than not having a quip to match his own. People must take too deep of an advantage when it comes to the ease of communication!

With that, there wasn’t much to ask in wanting to extend those years for a little longer. Obviously change is always inevitable and the back of the mind was always ready for the day a woman would be magnetized against John’s strange and awkward charm. If the St. Bart’s jump wasn’t so inevitable, by this point his marrying would be even more welcomed than it had been. The outside world must have taken advantage of both communication with close friends and friendship in general, otherwise sentiment would barely strum against these defeated nerves. They wanted to express more than that sorrow and perhaps even anger.

He could get mad at the chair, rip the blanket that hung off _his_ chair, tip it over, but what did any of it solve? A gun shot could cure his feelings, better fabric than the wall. No, that wouldn’t do it either although therapeutic. After all, John would be coming back to 221B in this new baptism. All it would take would be one simple glance at an attempted sewn up bullet sized patch in the exact middle of the chair and John would know.

“I was bored” could be a rather easy and nonchalant answer, but after the shared look on the dance floor, John wouldn’t entirely believe him. When did it become so difficult to lie, at least domestically lie about the little things? Nerves were struck by the smoothness of palms as they rubbed up his face and into his hair. That old nervous tick of digging into curls couldn’t be helped. A breath exhaled, but what did it expel exactly? There was no winning or compromising in this situation. In walking away, John was still there. With John’s presence and the foundation of their friendship as it was, the only option could be walking away for the doctor to really have the life he deserved but wouldn’t entirely pursue. Dropping his head back, a sigh than an exhale blew out at the immediate impact of curls to leather.

Instinctively, hands grabbed the laptop on the floor next to him. Naturally, there was always the option to jump on a case to distract himself, but immersed within the sharp brightness it all seemed rather pointless. His inbox was full of inane emails between people believing themselves just as equally deductive and overtly sentimental requests for this or that case. By this point, most of the situations proved to be along the lines of John’s socially acceptable fives or sixes, nowhere near screaming a good eight or nine. He needed a case equivalent of a cigarette or a good shot of cocaine. There was always that case Mycroft brought to him earlier that week, but Mongolia was rather close to all countries that ended in -an, and he needed, nay _deserved_ , to stay as far away from the Middle East as possible.

The long thin laptop returned to its perch on the floor and a sigh could only rumble outward, curls now rather petulantly dropping back against the leather. Perhaps a cigarette could cure this sudden restlessness. No, the transport was still far too strung up on emotion and it could only worsen the rare experience to feel the blessed rotation of nicotine in his throat and nasal passages. This was his life and all of the self imposed isolation to cure this restlessness was apart of that. Sometimes he needed to be alone even with an ensemble of what seemed to be a Noel Coward[[9](%E2%80%9C#note9%E2%80%9D)] production coming in and out of 221B.  

Funny how in the attempt of closing out this friendship would involve an even greater lethargy than the first time he collapsed in his bed with a new roommate upstairs. Perhaps sleep was the cure to all of this, but moving into the bedroom felt rather strenuous in this moment. It wouldn’t be the first time falling asleep in his chair, waking up with regret attached to each strained neck muscle, but eyes closed giving into something not necessarily made of slumber.

Behind closed lids laid a full presence within the transport sensing all that surrounded him. There was the pile of newspapers off to the side of his right foot, the laptop sitting on the hearth, the vertical book spines hovering overhead. As to what sat opposite of him felt just as empty and defeated as 221B the moment he unlocked the door late last year. But breath moved even deeper with no reality or assertion in the ebb and flow, feeling this strange quiet weigh against his arms. They felt even heavier giving into this mental exhaustion, moving this mindfulness upwards to taut shoulders and muscles within the neck.

The right hand flexed fully conscious of the faint oval shaped burning in its fingers. Toes followed suit in stretching, noting the presence of far more relaxed legs and hips well exercised by that pirouette. A lip quirked successfully. The “great Sherlock Holmes” dancing. What would that man’s public, or really the twentysomething year old that developed into him, say to this private interest becoming so public? The barely developed frontal cortex begged for a William Holmes to keep the hobby quiet not out of masculine distaste, but the developing of a brain that did not entirely contain the symmetry of attaching within the body in more present moments. It seemed this struggle was still alive, most often finding it difficult to maneuver the transport among groups of people.

That was his world. This mind that steered this body created this sad and defeated world around him. But it was the outside influences that could not be helped, that West End production of the extroverted world that John basically threw into his lap. This time it was not as easy as brushing the more perceptive label of addict off of himself enough that it wouldn’t entirely encapsulate every dimension of who he was as a person. It was no mussing of his 20some year old curls, looking into a reflection of those less bloodshot looking eyes and chanting “Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective.” Deprecation and positive assertion of past transgressions often felt one and the same. Positive assertion even in this room behind closed eyelids felt just as condemning yet understood, all of this self hatred well meaning and yet unneeded for a world _outside_  of 221B. This was apart of that weight. This is what it meant to be that “great Sherlock Holmes” which was never apart of the original plan.

Basal tear fluid came back to his eyes and hands would not hide them in their darkness. Self hatred was not the answer but rather a motivator even within this strange duality. No, this was not the “Sherlock Holmes” he made himself to be as a hand struck out to the desk, maneuvering for the phone that surely had to be in reach. Reaching further, that emotional transport did not find its target and the John Watson sanctioned “great Sherlock Holmes” hung off the arm of that infamous leather chair. A rumble rang off of the back of the throat before graduating into a full chuckle. It was always easy to find the humor in the popular perception of the caricature on “The Personal Blog of John H. Watson.”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft’s voice cracked with sleep in a more ordinary sleep pattern. A lip quirked in momentary victory now being the one to interrupt _his_  brother’s sleep when that voice enjoyed precedence over his REM cycle.

“I-is that--” nerves jumped at the sound of his own voice, almost forgetting its timber or how it so easily pitched in a quick second of insecurity considering the past two hours. “Is that Mongolian case still available?”

“I thought you said you would never want to be around the Middle East ever again,” that exhausted voice slightly moaned. It was far too easy to enjoy this moment if only for the tone of his voice and not for the loathing adventure ahead.

“Mycroft,” the timber once more remembered its natural pitch and stayed there, practically growling in pure assertion with no duality, “Is that Mongolian case still available?”

“Sherlock, I-” that groaning voice slowly came to a brighter consciousness and landed on a rather ambiguous “oh.” Of course Mycroft would catch on to what was really happening, a defeated sigh dropping his chin downwards but the voice managed to remain confident.

“Well?”

“Of course, brother, it’s available.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> 1Psychologist Robert Zajonc who found that long married couples develop each other’s facial features.  
> 2Different colored irises, Martin Freeman has them  
> 3The lower half of a violin  
> 4The second tier of the four domains of mindfulness or Sattipathana  
> 5Basically, the fight or flight response  
> 6The part of the brain which activates both when a person speaks and speaks with themselves (inner speech)  
> 7Metacarpophalangeal Joint: Joints between the metacarpal bones and the proximal phalanges  
> 8“Sherlock Holmes: INTJ - The Book Addict’s Guide to MBTI:” https://mbtifiction.com/2014/10/12/sherlock-holmes-intj/  
> 9Famous British songwriter and playwright of 40s-50s comedic parlor room stage plays
> 
> and a huge thank you to http://arianedevere.livejournal.com for the more canonical dialogue.
> 
>  
> 
> ...and I swear, I did NOT know Benedict Cumberbatch was "philosophically Buddhist" until AFTER I wrote this.


End file.
